


The Perils of Phanfic

by molo (esteefee)



Series: Venice Place [1]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: April Showers Challenge, Crack, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-19
Updated: 2006-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:11:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/molo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch isn't a fan of fanfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perils of Phanfic

Hutch made a disgusted, angry sound, a half-snort that quickly mutated into a growl. Starsky rushed over as fast as he could and held down their brand-new laptop, pinning it to the desk just in time.

Hutch's growl faded into a mewly whine.

"Hutch, you can't chuck this baby again. I mean, I know we're under Apple Care, but they're not gonna fall for the 'damaged in transit' line twice in a row."

"But...but...." A spray of body fluids, the wrong kind entirely, sputtered from Hutch's lips. His hands clenched spasmodically into fists.

"What has the list done this time?" Starsky asked with a sigh.

"They're talking about _hurting_ me again. And I'm just barely out of the cast from last time." Hutch raised his arm plaintively. It was true: he still had fine bits of plaster dusting the silky golden hairs of his forearm.

"It's all in good spirit, buddy," Starsky said, trying to be soothing. He stroked Hutch's back--not in a comforting, circling rub, but more like an abbreviated petting motion ending with a half pat.

Hutch's tremors started to ease.

"That's it, baby blue. Now tell me, what do they want to do us?"

"I can't...they want to..." Hutch took a deep, choking breath. "I can't even say it."

Starsky nudged him in gentle sympathy. "Come on, spill it. Do they want me to die after the Gunther attack again, is that it?" He knew how painful that was for Hutch. And the nightmares. Oh, his shaking, sweating, trembling wreck of a partner in the throes of another nightmare where Starsky didn't make it...Starsky smiled.

"No. Not _that_ again. Thank God."

"Do they want tie me to a cross, whip me with cat-o-nines?"

Actually, Starsky was kind of fond of that scenario, as well.

"No..."

"Not the rattlesnake again?" Starsky shuddered.

"Not even close! They want...they want to MUTILATE me!"

"What!?" That wasn't the way it was supposed to go. Starsky was the one who was supposed to be tortured exquisitely to the brink of surrender, yet still maintain his gruff, brave, bantering exterior throughout, even as waves of pain crashed through him, numbing his mind to all but one thought: Hutch coming to his rescue.

"How're you supposed to rescue me just in the nick if you've been mutilated at the same time?"

"Yeah, that would be a tough trick, seeing as they want to...they want to cut off my legs!"

Oh no. That was _not_ allowed. Not those long, golden, lightly-dusted-with-pale-fleece yards-long legs that Starsky loved to have wrapped around his waist as he pounded into the creamy depths of Hutch's--

"AND...it's gen!"

"WHAT?" Starsky tried to absorb the concept. "We go through all that, and no hospital sex?"

"Not a second of it. Just...a little bit of bathing."

"Well...baths are fun--"

"A _sponge_ bath."

"Oh." Starsky chewed his lip. "Gimme that thing."

Hutch handed over the laptop, a grateful smirk on his face.

As Starsky started to close it in preparation of hurling the damned thing against the wall, his eye caught the offending email.

"Hutch."

"What? Get on with it."

"They wanted a parody, for chrissake. Not a real story."

"So?"

Starsky sighed in exasperation. "What harm is a little parody?" He rubbed his belly contemplatively, lifting his shirt slightly so he could brush his fingers against the trail of dark hair there. "A parody lightens the mood...lets you play with the scenario without really going in too deep...."

"But I _like_ to go deep." Hutch's voice had dropped fourteen octaves, and his eyes seemed to be fixated on the movement of Starsky's hand.

Starsky rubbed himself a little more, this time letting his fingers slip just under the waist of his threadbare jeans, softened by thousands of careful washings. Hutch's eyes tracked the progress of Starsky's fingers like a polar bear hunting an ice weasel.

The laptop survived another day.

 _Fin._


End file.
